


The Last Goodbye

by Mianmaru



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hope, M/M, OTP Feels, Post Reichenbach, Shakespeare abusal, Sherlock is still alive, sorry bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:52:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mianmaru/pseuds/Mianmaru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a goodbye starts something new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Yoricks Words

John limped through the seemingly endless rows of tombstones trying to be as fast as possible. He wanted to be done with this. Sooner rather than later.  
He knew the way by heart, had seen every grave on the way a thousand times. He was observing everything he passed because he wasn’t able to face his destination. Not yet.

 

~*~

 

John was staring at the expensive black marble that had become the symbol of everything that was sad and dark in his life.

 

“It’s actually kind of funny, Sherlock. Sometimes, I am even able to laugh about it. Surely, you wouldn’t see it that way but….It’s just…I don’t know.” He tilted his head, staring at his shoes and the earth beneath them.

“They all see it. Every single one of them. They pretend not to. I am fairly certain that I am playing my role very convincingly though. Because I am the best actor. I am so good at it, you would be pleased. No, that is the wrong word. You would be impressed at how I developed the ability to make everyone believe that I am feeling better. That I am not feeling lonely without you. That I don’t have to struggle to get up in the morning. It helps, you know. I watch their relief when I smile at them and I am almost able to believe it myself.” He shrugged his shoulders at that.

“I know you would see right through it, but that doesn’t matter. And, actually, nothing matters anymore. You left me, Sherlock! You fucking left me!” He took a steadying breath to calm down, it was a cemetery after all.

“There is no sound, taste or voice that doesn’t remind me of you. Everything lost its value the day I lost you. Sentiment, I know. God, I am just so angry. And it makes it worse that I can't hate you. I wish I could. Oh, how I wish I could hate you. Maybe I could move on then. Maybe I could start a new life somewhere else. But I'm just sitting there. Every day. I'm staring at your violin for hours, imagining you’d come and play for me. Imagination grew very important to me in the last month, I daresay. I can’t even count how often I've pictured you returning. I can almost hear you chuckle at that. Amusing! I remember your laugh but not my own. I don't think that's a problem, I won’t need it again. Just another thing I have lost.” He was clearing his throat to find the bravery to proceed.

“Yorick speaks of you, you know? You always argued about his name but that is none of your concern anymore, is it? How else would you name a skull? And he is quite smart. He is right about so many things. I understand why you talked to him so often. He is the reason that I am talking to you now. There was one thing he said… and I…I had to agree with him.” He knew that it would be hard and he didn’t want to hurt Sherlock but he had to say it. He had to say it out loud.

“I….I wish we’d never met! There! I said it.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The sky above him was blue with a single bird flying around, searching for prey. John's gaze was fixed on the engraved letters.

“Erm…I…I have to go now, Sherlock.” Hesitating, he let his fingers slide over the ‘S’, feeling his eyes burn.

“I miss you. I love you.” He shifted into his military stance and quickly turned around. He knew he’d never come back.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock was slumped against a tree, hugging his legs tight. He had buried his face between knees and chest, sobbing quietly.

He had lost John.

 

Forever.


	2. Someone To Talk

That night, John was standing in the middle of the living room. All he could remember was his own voice screaming this painful word, the name he would never forget. And blood. God, he needed to talk. But there was no one. As always. But this was not what made John turn around himself in utter disbelief. Yorick. Yorick was gone.

~*~

 

Hello John. Pub? – Greg

 _Always the eloquent DI_ John thought, instantly dismissing the offer. It was three days after Yorick had magically vanished from 221b and John was already freaking out. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed how many conversations consisted only of him talking to that skull. Scratching his neck, a newly developed habit that caused sore and itchy marks, John considered never talking to any human again.

_Appealing. Not healthy, at all. To go or not to go. Yorick might have laughed at that._

“Oh, God!” John groaned.

 

He jumped off of the couch, hurrying to the bathroom while he typed on his phone. If he wanted to go out he would have to shower first. He smelled a bit. OK, not just a bit.

 

 

Thirty minutes later, he stood in the doorway. He knew why he hesitated and found it perfectly reasonable. Pity. Greg would have the look on his face that always made John want to cry. No not cry. Weep. He sighed heavily.

“Soldier on.”

He took the stairs two at a time, his jaw tight and his eyes looking straight ahead.

~*~

Sherlock stared angrily at the floor of his hotel room clutching his hair painfully tight in his right fist. He was sitting on an awfully modern leather sofa that was neither comfortable nor cheap. It made Sherlock even angrier. His gaze was still locked on the little pieces of bone that had covered the floor after throwing an annoying, if not hateful skull against the wall.

In his left hand, Sherlock held the solution to all his problems, tempting in a way he hadn’t experienced in years. The table in front of him was already prepared. Somehow he had managed to avoid seeing his own face in the small mirror. He forced his eyes shut and turned his head away from the evidence of painful loss. With two fingers, Sherlock tore the small plastic bag open before he scattered most of the clean white powder all over his reflection in the mirror. It was OK. That would help him to stay alive. To survive the guilt and the loneliness he had to bear. Beside the mirror his phone moaned obscenely.

 

He showered and left the flat. – MH

 

Sherlock blinked a few times. What now?

~*~

 

It was 1 am when John came home. He felt exhausted and empty. The night with Greg had taken all his acting skills and the stairs seemed to feel a personal grudge towards him trying to be as hard to climb as possible. The dizziness John felt was suddenly replaced by pure wonder when he stepped through the living room door.

Every surface in the room was inhabited by various skulls. Not only human skulls, there were some cats, dogs and even a few mice skulls. On the couchside table, which was covered by not less than 12 of them was a small piece of paper neatly folded to stand like some sort of reserved sign in a restaurant. John took the two steps to the table cautiously and slow, fearing he might pass out from the absurdity. A quick look around assured him that he was alone in the room before he leaned down to grab the paper. He rounded the table and sat down on the couch, fiddling with the small note. A note. What else would it be?


	3. Shakespeare

Fourteen years ago, Sherlock had a case that involved an alleged Shakespeare-manuscript and a narcissistic expert, a combination that forced him to develop the ability to forge handwriting. It wasn’t really necessary but Sherlock just wanted to compromise that cheeky bastard. It took him a long time until he was able to produce an exact copy of Hamlet and by that point he knew the play by heart.

 

Sherlock had often planned to delete this knowledge but he never did, partly because he quite fancied Shakespeare but mostly because John did too. They argued about the skull's name now and then, and Sherlock never admitted that he envied John for the idea.

 

Writing the note for John took him 15 minutes and three attempts. When he was done, he folded it neatly in half and let his fingers slide over it.

_You will get your miracle, John._

 

__

* * *

 

_**Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar…** _

 

John immediately knew that it was a Shakespeare quote. Well, the language made it obvious. He jumped up from the couch to search through his books for the source when another thought struck him. _WHO?_

Who would take Yorick, replace him a few days later with a lot of brothers and sisters, and leave a note for him that would lead him think about….doubt?

 

Doubt was something he’d gotten used to. He had doubts about his future, his feelings and sometimes he even doubted his past. In his weakest moments, there was nothing he was certain of, except one thing. He _always,_ every second of his existence, believed that Sherlock wasn’t a fake. If the note wanted to make him believe that he lied, John would be certain that it didn’t come from a friend.

 

It came back to the source then. He had a much smarter plan this time. Searching though all of his Shakespeare books? Stupid idea, really! There was his laptop, right under these three cat skulls. John arranged them carefully in the few free places of his desk before he settled back on the couch with the laptop on his knees.

He typed in the quote and “Shakespeare” and was instantly rewarded.

Hamlet. He should have thought of that! What he didn’t expect was the end of the sentence. Well, he expected that there was more because of the way it trailed off, but he really didn’t expect _this_. At least it gave the exact source so he could re-read it in one of his own books. Just to be sure.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**"Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love".**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love".  
> Hamlet (Act II, Sc. II).


	4. Communication

During the following days, John's mind was blissfully occupied. Not that he didn’t have an immediate idea who the author of this note was, but every time he thought about this new puzzle he felt … alive. He tried to push the last part aside for his sanity’s sake and concentrated on the things he should doubt. There were at least 7 possibilities who the author was but only one he truly believed in. That one option. It gave him hope but scared him, too. John tried to concentrate on the other six options although he didn't have much conviction in any of them. He knew that that small glimmer of hope would destroy him if it was disappointed in the end.  
  
The note had given him strength. The strength to carry on and do all the normal routine everyone did. He took a daily shower, ate almost every day and had some small chats with Mrs. Hudson.  
He read Hamlet 14 times in five days. It didn’t help. He didn’t find the answer. With every passing minute, he grew more and more agitated. He had a strong feeling of being manipulated, not a thought that amused him. He had to take things in hand and be the one in control. It wasn’t that hard to find a fitting quote to express his worries and he didn’t even try to use another handwriting. What for? He folded the paper and set it in the same place he’d found the other note.  
  
John drew an exclamation mark on the living room window.  
  
He went to sleep, half expecting to find the note gone in the morning and for the first time in a very long while he was looking forward to waking up.

* * *

  
  
_**'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.**  
_

* * *

  
  
The note was still where he left it in the evening, offending him with its presence. John forced himself to eat a small breakfast before he left the flat to take a walk in the park. The fresh air didn’t help clear his head and after a while he found himself sitting on a bench, staring at the pond.  
  
He spent the whole day avoiding his flat until there was nothing left to be done outside of 221B but doing some shopping. Realizing that it was overdue gave John a feeling of rightness that he hadn’t had in a long time. Strolling through the aisles, he allowed himself some luxury and chose to buy all the ingredients for his favorite gratin. John smiled to himself.  
  
Stepping out on the street with his shopping bags, John noticed a melancholic and familiar melody. His. The song Sherlock used to play for him when he needed to calm down from a nightmare. He glanced at the young homeless girl standing in front of Tesco playing the violin. She winked at him.  
  
John ran home.

* * *

  
**_If thou sorrow, he will weep; If thou wake, he cannot sleep:  
Thus of every grief in heart; He with thee does bear a part._**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.  
> Hamlet, Act III, scene ii
> 
>  
> 
> “He that is thy friend indeed,  
> He will help thee in thy need:  
> If thou sorrow, he will weep;  
> If thou wake, he cannot sleep:  
> Thus of every grief in heart  
> He with thee does bear a part.  
> These are certain signs to know  
> Faithful friend from flattering foe.”  
> The Passionate Pilgrim, XXI
> 
> Beta by glorious Umqradenied


	5. The Pilgrim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small hints can have a big effect.

John couldn’t stop the tears running down his face as he sat on the couch, holding tight to the small white sheet of paper. He wasn’t hurt but these words held no comfort either. While they ratcheted up his hope, they also made him feel betrayed and lost. He knew he couldn’t be certain that the quote was from….the person he expected it to be from, but his instinct told him it was. After all, his instinct had saved his life more than once. He rubbed his face with his hands, struggling to calm down and think of a way to proceed.

 

He wasn’t alone anymore but much more lonely.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock fidgeted uncertainly in the doorway of the bookshop. Maybe he went too far, but he knew what to expect of John. He _knew_ John. And John would want proof.

* * *

 

After he found out which source stood behind the latest quote, John was certain that the name of the poem held another hint for him. “The Passionate Pilgrim.” He smiled inwardly, despite the anxiety that still pulled at his guts whenever he thought about the possibility of being entirely wrong.

 

 John knew that the “conversation” he had was meant to be a secret, and he was more than proud of himself for having found a way to answer the stranger, whom he secretly called “The Pilgrim.” Surprisingly, he wasn’t worried about the fact that said stranger had broken into their flat, repeatedly. He was actually more worried about the fact that he called it _their_ flat.

John was still amazed by the homeless girl that played his melody and hoped that she was also an opportunity to deepen the contact with The Pilgrim. He knew exactly what to do if he got to see her again. He took out 20 quid and a pen before writing another one of his favorite Shakespearean quotes neatly in one corner of the banknote. He waited for the ink to dry before he tucked the money back into his wallet.

Now he had to wait.

* * *

 

John passed Tesco everyday for the next three days. Sometimes he went in, sometimes he didn’t. He knew that his behavior was odd, if not plainly obvious. It had a good effect on his fridge, either way.  John just couldn’t stop himself from searching for contact. He needed to know. He needed to know everything. But the girl didn’t show up again.

 

He paced up and down the living room wondering if he should repeat his approach with the exclamation mark. He muttered to himself and the various skulls surrounding him. John knew it would be a failure to act so obvious. More obvious then he had already been acting, anyway. Once in a while he stopped in his tracks to yell at Fortinbras, the one human skull he had left sitting on the mantelpiece. He was worried about the long time that had passed without a note. He worried for his Pilgrim.

 

Still thinking about the last note, he suddenly recognized a book peeking out of the row on his bookshelf. He took a careful step in its direction. His pulse was racing. He had never seen that book before. He took it from the shelf turning it over in his hand again and again. It was a brand new copy of Twelfth Night by Shakespeare. Relief washed over John when he opened the book to find a white slip of paper between the first pages.

 

            _ **I am.**_    _Act II, scene iii, 44-45_

 

“Fantastic!” John smiled at his new note, walking over to the desk. He sat down, digging around in his pockets for his wallet. When he found it he pulled out the 20 quid he had meant to use as a message. “Brilliant!” He grinned shaking his head. In the corner of the banknote he had written:

 

       ** _Be great in act, as you have been in thought._**

 

It was not the first time that he got his answer before having to ask a question, but that stopped happening a long time ago. His grin widened even more. He laid wallet and banknote on the desk to look up the rest of the message. Act 2, scene 3, line 44-45.

His smile vanished when he found what he was looking for. Tears welled up in his eyes and his hands were shaking.

 

_Journeys end in lovers meeting,  
            Every wise man's son doth know._

 

He cried. Let all the anger, fear and pain pour out of him.

There was no space left for them while hope started to bloom in his chest.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be great in act, as you have been in thought.
> 
> King John, Act V scene i 
> 
>  
> 
> "Journeys end in lovers meeting,  
> Every wise man's son doth know."  
> Twelfth Night, Act II, scene iii, line 44-45
> 
> Beta by wonderful Umqradenied.


End file.
